


Taciturnitas

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one angel who never sings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taciturnitas

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters in this story were created by Neil Gaiman and expanded by Mike Carey in the "Lucifer" universe. I own absolutely nothing, and meant no harm when writing this story.   
>  Note: This takes place before Lucifer's fall, when he goes by the name of Samael.   
> A big thank you goes out to my fabulous betas Lexie, moontyger & voksen. Also, giant thanks goes to my title betas: Shusu, Grey Bard & helarctos. I caused you guys way too much trouble.
> 
> Written for Karanguni

 

 

 

The symphony of construction rings across the central plaza of the Silver City: the metallic din of a hammer coupling with an anvil, the low, creaky whine of an overloaded pulley, the steady percussion of chisel meeting stone. The air sings with the dry whispers of disagreement, an occasional shout of command breaking through the general noise. The air is hot and dry, and although the Silver City has no sun, nor moon and stars, the light is warm and comforting. The clouds gather on the horizon, forming blank white negatives on the prismatic sky.

Above the noise, cutting through the steady pounding of hammers and chisels, is the sound of Faith: angels singing praise to God as they look upon the workers of the Silver City, the Lilim, toiling in the heat of the day to build a bastille in His Name, an everlasting monument to His Perfection. The Host sing and hum, content in their acts of worship, and although their words remain incomprehensible to non-celestial beings, the message is clear: Praise be to Yahweh, He who is Most High, Creator of All Things, for Whom we chisel our Faith from stone, our Love from metal, as a testament to our Belief.

There is one angel who never sings.

He is Duma, Angel of Silence, purveyor of the comfort in quietude and the stillness of death.

He stands in the center of the plaza at the heart of the Silver City, beside an empty fountain, his hands and wings stretched toward the sky. Duma's shadow falls across the marble, distorted by cracks in the rock, reaching from one edge of the wide pool to the other. He flexes his wings and lifts his arms higher, toward the heavens, and his shadow stretches thin and tall, grasping at nothing.

Duma twists his hands and bends his elbows, and the shadow moves, delicately, first one way then the next, sliding across the edges of the marble façade effortlessly. He stretches his fingers out, reaching farther, and with liquid motion he dictates the sounds of creation: the sharp tremolo of metalwork, the sensuous, rhythmic tenor of a worker's march, and rising above everything, the sweet, melodious sighing of the wind through the City. 

He listens to these sounds, absorbing the absence of silence, the chaotic bustle of foundation; Duma flicks his wrists and leans back, closing his eyes against the blinding light and imagining the music flowing from his fingertips, curling into the air in a glorious, deafening crescendo.

Above the fountain, standing upon a crystal balcony overlooking the plaza, Samael rests his elbows on a filigree of silver and watches Duma's performance. Michael stands beside him, fingers hovering above the balustrade. 

"What is he _doing_?" Samael asks, unable to look away from the sight of Duma stretching and arching in the sunlight, fingers curving to grasp at vacant air.

"You can't tell? He's conducting." Michael replies with an air of complacence.

Samael frowns, and leans slightly over the balcony, as if to get a better look. "And where is his orchestra?"

Michael waves a hand, making a vague gesture that encompasses the entirety of the Silver City and Creation. "Everywhere."

Pinning his twin with an exasperated look, Samael pulls away from the balcony and heads toward the archway of the staircase. Michael doesn't bother to turn, and instead leans closer to the balustrade.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

Samael pauses in the doorway. "I want to ask him something."

"He's the Angel of _Silence_ , Samael," Michael says. "He won't answer your questions."

Samael smiles. "I never said he had to."

\--

"Your conducting is _exquisite_ , my brother," Samael says, his shadow falling across the fountain at an angle, distorting Duma's. "But it would be much improved if _your_ voice were included in the ensemble."

Duma stands still, his arms still stretched into the air, his wings spread to their full, magnificent length. He closes his eyes again, and basks in the warmth of the light on his skin and the feel of the breeze on his face.

"Did you hear me?" Samael asks, walking around the fountain to stand at Duma's side.

Duma drops his arms and turns to him, one eyebrow raised skeptically, lips curved into a frown.

"Yes, that's right." Samael nods. "You're the Angel of _Silence_ , not deafness." He smiles, perfect teeth glittering in the sunlight as he shrugs and tucks his arms against his chest. "You know, you don't have to _be_ silent to perform your function."

Duma holds Samael's gaze, his face serene.

Samael shrugs again. "You _don't_ , and you know it. Ireul is the Angel of Fear, and does he spend his days cowering in the corner in the name of the Almighty? No, he does not. I'm the Morningstar, the bearer of the Light and the Fire, but you don't find _me_ walking around as a pillar of flame all the time, do you?"

Duma smiles, gently. For a minute, Samael thinks this must be how Duma laughs.

"I'm just trying to make the point that fulfilling your function does not mean imprisoning yourself in its definition. You could speak, and still preside over Silence."

Tilting his head quizzically, Duma widens his smile and then turns, looking back across the plaza, over the fountain.

"Why do you do it, then, Duma?" Samael asks, reaching out to touch Duma's shoulder. "Why do you stay silent in His Name? You're fulfilling your function beyond its definition, but _why_? I suppose you think it brings you closer to Him, to be this subservient to His Will." Duma stares at Samael, expressionless. "I suppose you think it will _protect_ you, don't you? If He strikes down against the voices of dissent, even if you harbor minor blasphemies, how can He punish you, if you do not speak amongst those who disfavor the Lord?"

Samael pulls away from Duma, shaking his head, and stray curls of gold fall against his cheekbones.

"You are a _coward_ , Duma." Samael's eyes are full of fire. "You believe you are fulfilling your duties, when instead you are _escaping_ them. You _choose_ to stay silent, and so you cannot add your voice to ours; you cannot speak your approval or objection."

Duma reaches out, and his fingertips are cold on Samael's cheek. His smile is gentle, and sad.

"You, I—" Samael pauses, carefully pulling Duma's hand from his face, cupping it between his own. "I do not understand." 

Lifting one hand, Duma points across the sky, toward the outer spires of the City, where some of the Host keep their living quarters. Samael feels the warmth of Duma's fingers curled between his own, and he nods his consent.

"Show me, Duma."

\--

The room is a cell high in a tower, and the entrance is a simple archway, gilded with silver and covered by empyreal glass. Duma moves through it effortlessly, and the light bends and shifts around his frame, opening and closing again. Samael follows him, shivering at the cold touch of ether on his skin.

Duma's living quarters are spartan; he is an Angel, insubstantial, without need for shelter or sustenance, neither sleep nor companionship. His existence is defined by the Creator, the same as all angels.

"What is it you wish to show me?" Samael asks, examining the room curiously. There are shelves jutting from walls, swooping down and curving to meet the floor or ceiling, ledges formed from silver and stone.

A silver box rests on one of these shelves, carefully constructed and adorned with filigree. Duma picks it up, and place it in Samael's outstretched hands.

"It's a box."

Duma fixes him with a stare, one that suggests Samael's statement is less than intelligent. He reaches over and opens the container, and takes a step back.

The light flickers on Samael's face, illuminating his expression of surprise. Inside the box is a glowing sphere, condensed to the size of an apple; it glimmers against the silver, the inner flame subdued and gentle, the surface rippling with color.

Samael looks up, and meets Duma's eyes. "May I?"

Duma waves his hand, smiling.

When Samael's hand finally touches the sphere, he finds it to be slightly sticky; the luminescence coats his fingertips like water. He isn't sure what to expect, but after a moment, the sound hits him: a thousand voices, rising and falling in unison, climbing to a deafening octave. 

Samael is so startled that he drops the box, and is even more startled to find Duma is there to catch it. He closes it, silently, and sets it back on the shelf, his back turned and wings tucked tightly against his body.

"What was it?" If Samael's voice sounds strained, he takes no notice. "It was _us_ , wasn't it? The Host. All of our prayers, our monologues. It was every word we wanted to say, but replaced with silence."

Duma nods, wings sagging.

Samael shudders, folding his arms across his body. He feels violated, betrayed, although he cannot pinpoint exactly _why_.

"I'm in there," he says, finally, when the silence becomes too heavy. Duma finds comfort in it, of course, but now Samael finds the quiet of the room disturbing. 

Duma nods again.

"Have you shown this to anyone else?"

Duma shakes his head, then turns and meets Samael's gaze.

The memory of those unspoken words, whispered and screamed, woven from hatred and love simultaneously, is too much for Samael to bear. He closes his eyes and presses his face against the wall, reveling in the chill of the stone, trying to ground himself in something tangible.

Duma's touch is light and feathery, but it startles Samael regardless, and he spins around in surprise and anger, swatting the angel's hand away. He ignores Duma's hurt expression, unable to quell his anger.

"It isn't fair, Duma," he snaps, shoving the angel away. "I know _you're_ not in there. As the Angel of Silence, you preside over all unspoken thought, don't you? But you don't collect your own. And that isn't _fair_." 

There's a brush of skin against Samael's shoulder, and he turns to find Duma pressed against him, head resting against his arm in an effort to show comfort and understanding. His eyes are closed, his expression one of pain, but it infuriates Samael all the more. He twists, grabbing Duma's hands and spinning him around, wings crushed flat against the stone wall.

"I will _make_ you speak, Duma." Samael winds his perfect fingers around Duma's throat, holding the other angel in place, his grip firm but loose. "I will make you cry out for me yet."

Duma sighs, his face expressionless, stoic, and Samael meets his gaze and finds no fire, no anger or disappointment in his pale blue eyes.

"You are difficult to anger, Duma," he says, shifting his grip. "But there are _other_ ways to coax out the power of your voice."

Duma doesn't expect the kiss, and it shows. He twists away instinctively, turning his head from the other angel's grasp, but Samael only follows his momentum and presses forward, dropping his hands from Duma's neck to wind them around the angel's waist, pulling him closer. There's a moment of hesitation, the slightest of pauses, before Duma gives into Samael's wandering touch. 

Samael is the Angel of the Light and of the Fire; beneath Duma's searching fingertips, the heat of his body burns hotter than any earthly flame. 

"Duma." His voice is merely a whisper, hoarse with desire and almost a whine, desperate. Samael moves their bodies effortlessly, pulling Duma away from the wall, only to push him toward the floor. 

The ground is cold and hard, and Duma's wings are crushed uncomfortably against the stone, so that he grimaces and tries to sit up, arching his back. Samael meets him halfway, sliding his body against Duma's and letting his hands wander down the angel's lithe body, pressing gently against the curves of his abdomen, against thick cords of muscle and warm, supple skin. 

Angels are sexless, androgynous beings with chests and groins that are smooth and undefined; nevertheless, Samael presses his fingers between Duma's legs, where the warmth of his body is hottest. He scrapes his fingernails against the creamy skin of Duma's inner thigh, thumb caressing the crease where his leg meets his body.

Duma strains against him, his eyes sliding closed in pleasure. He sighs and digs his nails into the flesh of Samael's arm, trying to anchor himself against the waves of pleasure lapping at his body, making his toes curl and his heart ache with need.

"Let me hear your voice," Samael breathes into the shell of Duma's ear. He shifts his position so that he's propped up on both elbows, his fingers twining into the other angel's flaxen hair. He dips his head, mouth pressing into the slight hollow between Duma's collarbones, teeth and tongue worrying away the faint bruises he left on the angel's throat. 

Samael repositions himself again, sliding his legs until his groin finally meets Duma's, until their legs tangle and catch, locking together like puzzle pieces. He rocks, gently, the motion fluid and natural, and he revels in the expression on Duma's face.

Duma gasps, arching, as Samael's teeth rake a line of heat down his shoulder. His breath is warm and heavy in Samael's ear, disrupting the stray golden curls that are trapped against his skin by sweat and heat. 

Samael buries his face in the crook of Duma's neck, his fingers grasping at feathers and flesh, the warmth of his body coiling.

" _Duma_ —" Samael gasps, keening.

And in the heat of the moment, with feathers clutched in a white-knuckled grip and Duma's lips pressed against his forehead — he feels like he's choking, the noise rushing in his ears — when his own wings are spread wide and stiff, straining against the fire of his own body, Samael finds himself voiceless.

\--

_Friend looked at friend, then. And comrade considered comrade. A silence fell across the plaza, sudden and heavy. As he walked toward the gate, they began to fall in behind him. He didn't look back. He didn't seem to care._

High in a tower, with a view of the plaza at the heart of the Silver City — where a fountain runs with liquid flame, burning hotter than all the suns in Creation — the Angel Duma, purveyor of Silence and Quietude, opens a silver box.

Inside, there is a sphere of light, glowing slightly brighter now, burning hotter than before.

Duma touches it and weeps.

 


End file.
